


Subterfuge at the Savoy

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11308710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: A hotel room and an unexpected visitor lead to a bit of undercover subterfuge. A fluffy little ficlet for June's trope challenge.





	Subterfuge at the Savoy

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I had this really great undercover idea. But it's about six-and-a-half-thousand words already and I've hit a major roadblock, and it's unlikely I'll finish it. I've debated posting the first chapter before the month's end at least, but since I prefer to have a fic complete before posting... we'll see. The point is, I worked my arse off on a fic with liminal spaces AND dinosaurs, and instead ended up with a thousand words of fluffy fic instead. This might be a first.

The Savoy in London was a hotel with a reputation for the utmost discretion; Phryne had naturally taken their largest suite upon arriving in London, and had remained there for the previous six weeks. She hadn’t actually _left_ it in three days, not since she’d met Jack on the London docks and they’d had a very scandalous return in the back of a taxi. It was, in many ways, a refuge against the cold winter and demands of the outside world. But it was also just quite a lot of fun.

Unfortunately for Phryne, none of this was enough to stop Margaret Fisher from (she would later find out) charming a spare key off the hotel concierge “to surprise my dear daughter with these flowers for her birthday”. It wasn’t even the right _month_. The first Phryne knew of it was the sound of the door opening and her mother’s voice entering the parlour.

“Phryne? Dearest? It’s your mother! Are you awake?”

Jack was still fast asleep, and Phryne did the only thing she could think of--shook his shoulder quickly and hissed for him to get under the blankets. He complied immediately, still clearly more asleep than awake, and Phryne pulled the covers up as high as she could and sat up with her knees bent. With any luck it would be enough to obscure the lumpy figure beside her.

“I wasn’t,” Phryne called back. “How did you--”

Margaret Fisher pushed open the bedroom door, silhouetted in the morning--or was it afternoon?--sunlight.

“Dear girl, why are these lights off?” she asked, immediately remedying the problem by switching on a lamp and then steaming across the room to pull open the curtains. Phryne quickly shifted the blanket and her body, doing her best to hide Jack. Her mother was hardly observant though, and headed back towards the door to place the flowers on the side table and throw herself into the armchair.

Phryne blinked somewhat blearily. They’d been up until at least four am, and she was not awake enough to really deal with this. 

“Mother--”

“Oh, pish-posh. A girl like you should be up and facing the day,” Margaret said cheerfully. “I’ve arranged a luncheon in an hour, and Honoria and her son want to see us this afternoon.”

Phryne racked her brain, trying to put a face to the name. 

”Honoria Sticklesworth?” she asked. “And what’s her son’s name? Tristan or Lancelot or something?”

“Galahad,” said Margaret Fisher, and Phryne felt Jack’s stifled snort against her leg.

“Ahh yes, Gally the not so pure,” Phryne said brightly. They’d had a marvelous evening the last time she had been in London, but not one she particularly wanted to repeat.

Margaret’s gave Phryne a censuring glare.

“He’s quite pleased to see you again.”

Phryne felt rough fingertips ghosting up the inside of her thigh, and pressed her lips together and breathed deeply.

“I’m afraid I’m unavailable,” she apologised. 

“Nonsense! You really ought to find yourself a suitable man, Phryne. You aren’t getting any younger, you know, and--” Margaret Fisher’s next words were drowned out by the rush of blood to Phryne’s ears as Jack’s fingers were replaced by his lips, his hand dropping down to caress her ankle. 

“Phryne!”

Phryne opened her eyes--she hadn’t even noticed they’d been closed--and tried to keep the pretense going.

“Sorry, Mother. I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’m coming down with a terrible cold.”

“You look perfectly well to me,” sniffed Margaret. 

“Headache,” Phryne replied.

“You aren’t still pouting over that policeman your father mentioned, are you? He said you told the poor man to come after you, which is utterly foolish.”

The policeman in question was drifting dangerously high up her thigh with his tongue, and Phryne really had no idea how much longer she could keep this charade up. Thank heavens the Savoy had enormously thick duvets and Phryne was a restless sleeper. They’d have been busted immediately otherwise. His morning stubble brushed against her leg, and Phryne coughed to cover the pleased hum she’d made.

“Mmm, no. No pouting over policemen here, Mother. We, uhh, discussed the matter and the whole thing is settled.”

Jack nipped her thigh, and Phryne squeaked. Damn him. 

“Are you quite well?” Margaret asked.

“No, Mother. Which is why I was sleeping in the dark when you arrived.” Which was an oddity she hadn’t fully grasped until that moment. “How _did_ you arrive?”

“The concierge is a friend,” Margaret said blithely, and Phryne rolled her eyes.

“The point remains, I am coming down with a cold and intend to remain in this bed for another day at least. Most likely until the end of the week. We can discuss… luncheons with Lancelot--”

“Galahad, Phryne.”

“Luncheons with Arthurian knights of any persuasion,” Phryne said firmly, “only once I’ve fully recovered.”

Jack had somehow reached her other thigh, and was moving down to press a kiss to the back of her knee--she jerked her leg reflexively, and tried to cover it up as a shift in position.

Margaret nodded doubtfully, then stood.

“If you insist, Phryne, but--”

“Good day, Mother. I promise to eat all the chicken soup the kitchen can supply and telephone you once I’ve recovered.”

Margaret nodded once more, then turned for the door. She stopped by the side table and adjusted the flowers, then left.

It was only once Phryne heard the doors to the suite close that she shifted the blanket back, revealing a very satisfied Jack Robinson.

“That was terrible of you,” she scolded.

He smirked, then sat up and leant towards her to kiss her lips.

“Why was it, Miss Fisher, that we are two consenting, independent adults and I _still_ found myself hiding from your mother?” he asked, eyes dancing. “You’re not ashamed of me, are you?”

“No.”

“Do you hide your… proclivities to satisfy your mother?” He was trying desperately hard to keep a straight face, and almost succeeding.

“No.”

“Were you concerned she’d stake her own claim on the poor policeman you’d enticed here?” 

“Oh yes, Jack,” Phryne said, reaching out to press a lock of hair from his forehead. “Very concerned indeed.”

“Liar.”

Phryne laughed. “Very well. If my mother had seen you, in my bed, all the way from Australia, she’d have us engaged by the day’s end,” she explained, exasperated. He looked slightly appalled by the thought, and a rush of affection filled her. She moved onto her knees and walked the small distance between them to kiss him softly. “And quite frankly, my dear detective inspector, dealing with that would require putting on clothes, and I have no intention of doing that until at least tomorrow.”

His arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer.

“Good,” he replied. “Neither do I.”


End file.
